


losing my mind (just a little)

by doingthewritethings



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Are, First Meetings, Flashbacks, M/M, My friends encouraged this, Please Send Help, Pranks, We, You Can Tell, a novel by me, alternately titled: two times ryan puked, and here we are, and how it got him a boyfriend, and i had to do Something, as my friend usually says, at least 90 percent of this is slightly altered things that have actually happened to me, attempts at humor, can i refer to my own timeline as canon, forgive typos it’s midnight, here, i am bringing dishonor on my household, i promised myself i wouldn’t write rpf, i think i’m hilarious, i wrote this when i had a stomach bug, if i’m not allowed to eat gluten, in like a month, it’s definitely not explicit but there’s a Lot Of Sex Jokes, i’m allowed to use food allergies as plot devices:, i’m probably butchering what working at buzzfeed is like, listen. i just saw infinity war, meet ugly, my mom bought 34 boxes of thin mints please help, remember when i used to have standards, so i don’t take 100 percent of the blame, the new season is killing me, the second hand embarrassment is immense, this is the first one i’ll own up to though, this is the second bu fic i have written and posted, to take my mind off the trauma, “porn without plot without porn”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doingthewritethings/pseuds/doingthewritethings
Summary: “Give me back my stapler,” he says. He can’t take it anymore. The woman at Staples has started sending him Christmas cards. “I know you took it, douchecanoe.”or, the one where Shane has odd courting rituals, Ryan remembers the first time they met, and I give up all semblance of dignity.





	losing my mind (just a little)

**Author's Note:**

> this took me like three weeks and a field trip three states over to finish, but i finally did! 
> 
> the idea for this was taken from a submission on otpprompts on tumblr, so credit there! it’s also based vaguely off that one post that’s ancient where the two coworkers threaten each other about stealing lunches, but that’s neither here nor there.
> 
> i don’t have anything to say for myself, honestly. title from the middle by zedd, grey, and maren morris, cause it’s been stuck in my head all day so i looped it while writing this.

The only light filtering through the room is dusty and muted, and Ryan is finally, finally in the soft place between being awake and being asleep when Shane Madej decides to lose his everloving mind.

“You said that a Girl Scout got murdered here?” His voice is like a gunshot in the silence, and Ryan rolls his eyes even though Shane can’t see him.

“Yeah.”

“I just— I really want some Thin Mints right now. I wonder if she’s possessing me.”

“Shane, it’s 4 a.m. For the love of all that is good—“

“Do you think that’s why we all love Girl Scout cookies so much? Because they’re possessing us? Can we do a video on that?”

“Not before we do the one on lizardmen.”

Shane makes a horrified noise, but persists. “Lucy!”

“Lauren.”

“Lauren! I’m here to offer my soul in return for your goods! But not as, like, a sex thing!”

Ryan wheezes. “Dude, stop it—“

“If you are here, let me be hit upside the head with four boxes of Samoas!”

“I’m trying to sleep.”

“Shove some Shortbreads right up my ass! But again! Not a sex thing!”

Ryan rolls over, putting his pillow over his head. “I’m not listening to you. I should have stayed with the camera crew. They’re in a hotel instead of listening to this shit.”

“When I’m the first person to ever eat ghost cookies, you’ll be sorry you missed your chance to get definitive proof of the supernatural,” Shane mumbles.

Ryan’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out, resigned to not getting any sleep. It’s from Shane. “Is this— is this porn. Is this furry porn? Is this explicit fanart of the two of us as furries?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Asshat.”

“That’s scarier than anything we’ve seen in this house so far.”

It’s going to be a long night.

“Strange to think we were enemies when we first met,” Shane muses.

Ryan laughs. “Yeah, cause you were an asshole!” 

“Was not.”

“Oh, you definitely were.”

Shane shrugs. “Not the way I remember it, but let’s hear your version. Tell me how we met.”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“It can be a bedtime story.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“Bedtime story bedtime story _bedtimestorybedtimestory_ —“

He turns over again, glares at Shane lovingly. “Can’t imagine why I ever thought anything but the best of you.”

“Alas, the true unsolved mystery.”

* * *

Ryan isn’t entirely sure why they became sworn workplace enemies, just knows that they did, and that one of these days he’s going to get arrested for the murder of one Shane Madej.

It probably started with the sticky notes, all things considered. He had left a simple request on his desk one day, an orange one, reading ‘ _PSA everyone: Please ask before borrowing my_ _pens!!_ _:-)_ ’

The next day, a response on a blue note awaited him. ‘ _never. you buy the nice pens_ ’

 **Orange:** I do, and that’s precisely why I’m asking that you let me know when you take them. They’re expensive. :-)

 **Blue:** hear that? that’s the sound of me using up all the ink in your favorite bic  
pen. mmmmmm, it just glides

 **Orange:** Okay. There’s no need to be immature about this; all I am asking is that you please return the supplies, which I bought with my own money, after you borrow them. That’s not too much to ask. You’ve taken this way too far.

 **Blue:** <3

 **Orange:** DID YOU STEAL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY PENS WHAT THE HELL MAN

 **Green, an outlier:** the Post-it note sexual tension is real.

 **Orange:** THERE ARE SECURITY TAPES FOR A REASON. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE

 **Blue:** not near your office there aren’t. nice try, bergara

It takes two weeks before Ryan walks into his office to find Shane there, catching him red (or rather blue) handed.

He narrows his eyes. “You!”

Shane makes a face reminiscent of that knife cat meme. “Me.”

“I’m—I’ll report you!”

“I’d like to see you try,” he says, sticking his tongue out and dashing in the other direction before anyone can catch him. No one with legs that long should be able to move that fast without looking like a newborn giraffe, but he manages.

Ryan doesn’t go to HR about it. There are other, more inventive ways of payback, and Shane isn’t going to know what hit him.

* * *

Shane looks up from his work as the seventh squeak echoes down the hallway. “Teej! I thought I asked you to fix the copier so it didn’t make all those weird noises!”

“I did!” TJ cries, indignant, from a room over.

He stops typing altogether, frowning. “Huh. Do you think we have mice?”

“I hope not. They unnerve me.”

“I used to have one as a pet.”

“Of course you did. Then _you_ can deal with it.”

Groaning, he pushes himself out of his chair and sticks his head into the hallway, trying to see if anything seems out of the ordinary.

There is, in fact, one big thing out of the ordinary. Ryan scoots down the hall, one inch at a time, in a rolling office chair, making the noise of nails on a chalkboard every time he moves. “Hey, Shane,” he says, grinning.

“Why?” says Shane, even though he knows why.

He shrugs. “On my way to go get coffee.”

“There’s this thing called walking. Invented a while ago. I suggest you try it.”

“Sadly, I can’t.”

“And why would that be?”

“Unfortunate skiing accident yesterday. I have to walk as little as possible. Doctor’s orders.” He continues screeching down the hallway.

“I’ll go get your coffee,” Shane says, sounding defeated.

Ryan hesitates. “Really?”

“Absolutely. I know when I’ve overstepped some boundaries, and I feel like if we could overcome this petty feud, we would work great together.”

Ryan smiles. “Thanks! I agree with you. I’m glad we’ve decided to end this.”

Shane, who is both a dick and insanely competitive, walks into the break room, takes the remaining sludge of that morning’s coffee pot, pours half a container of salt and two tablespoons of lemon juice into it, mixes it with a coffee stirrer, and puts it in a cup. “Here you go,” Shane says. “An apology.”

Ryan, who realizes what an idiot he’s been as soon as the first sip hits his tongue, chugs the entire scalding mug of what is probably the closest mankind has come to recreating hell without hesitation.

Shane is a little impressed.

(“Ryan,” Brent says later, while watching him puke into a sink in their shared bathroom, “why did you do this to yourself?”

Ryan flips him off.)

* * *

Having forgotten all about Thin Mints, Shane is positively wheezing. “You threw up? Oh, now I— now I feel bad! I didn’t think you were gonna drink it! That was the point!”

“Mama didn’t raise no quitter, Madej.”

“Mama should have raised a child who didn’t drink scalding lemon-salt despair to win an argument over pens!”

“Whatever. I’m continuing.”

Shane shifts in his sleeping bag to grin at Ryan. “At what point were you won over by my stunning good looks and charisma?”

“Never.”

Shane, while he would deny it, pouts.

“Fine. It’s coming up. Patience.” Ryan checks his phone. “Damn, it’s 4 already.”

“You do have a knack for keeping me up all night,” Shane says with an exaggerated wink.

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“Now, now. That’s just the demon Girl Scout talking.” 

* * *

 

Ryan sits in Buzzfeed’s offices at 2 in the morning, lamenting the very birth of Shane Alexander Madej. He sips his fourth cup of coffee, looking out over the parking lot.

Last week, he had come to work to find that his parking spot, the one underneath the maple tree next to the door, had been taken. He’d had to park across the street. The last time he’d done that was four years ago, and it was an indignity that he refused to suffer.

“Whose car is that?” Ryan had grumbled.

“Oh, that’s Shane’s,” someone said absentmindedly, unaware of the absolute chaos they were about to unleash.

The next day, he showed up to work at 8 to get his space, but the next day, Shane arrived at 7.

This escalated until he got to where he is now: trying desperately to stay awake, because the only way he can save his parking space is by never leaving it at all. His boss let him stay late for a project, as long as he locked up afterwards, and he’s ready to pull an all-nighter if it means preserving his pride.

Around five, after so much coffee he can’t feel his toes and 29 episodes of Friends, he falls asleep.

When he wakes up with a jolt, sun is streaming through the windows, and the sounds of morning conversation ring through the office. Cursing under his breath, he walks out into the adjoining room.

“Hey! You’re up. We were all gonna let you sleep. Did you stay up too late working last night?” says one of his coworkers.

He yawns. “Yeah. Tried to stay up the whole night. Didn’t work out.”

“Cool, cool. We got your note.”

He looks up at her, confused. “What?”

“Y’know, the one about how your car needed to be moved for today’s filming.”

He nods, but his mind is playing the Kill Bill sirens on loop. “Great! Thanks.” He smiles at her before racing down the stairs to the parking lot.

Underneath the maple tree, next to the door, is a pile of seventy-nine bright pink dildos. 

* * *

“I, to this day, don’t understand how you did that.”

“You weren’t committed!” Shane insists. “Being petty is an art form, and I am Van Gogh.”

Ryan pretends not to hear him. “Like, did you have to buy those with your own money? Did you get them from a store? Did you get a giant box delivered to your apartment?”

Shane is quiet for a second, which is never a good thing.

“Never mind. I don’t... I don’t think I want to know.”

Shane turns and looks Ryan dead in the eye. “I borrowed them.”

Remembering vividly the fact that he had to pick up and move all of them, Ryan makes an incoherent noise of grief and despair. 

* * *

Everything is quiet for a few weeks. The weather gets as cold as it ever does in L.A. August fades into September into October, and as all of the stores set up premature Christmas displays, Buzzfeed’s annual Halloween party approaches.

Their office doesn’t know the definition of the word lowkey (even though it’s on one of their How Much Slang Does Your Parent Know quizzes), so it’s a big ordeal. Some people bring in homemade snacks and drinks, catering is ordered, and alcohol (though outlawed at such parties) usually plays a role. The part Ryan’s looking forward to most, though, is the costume contest.

Specifically, beating Shane ‘Best Costume Four Years In A Row’ Madej at his own game. Granted, he hasn’t seen any of the previous years’ costumes, but he’s also never seen Shane put more than 20 minutes of work into anything, ever, so it can’t be that hard.

He’s been commissioning things from his friends who are handier with a sewing machine than he is, combining parts from thrift stores and designers and his closet to make the ultimate costume. Ryan is officially going to be the best ghost that anyone anywhere has ever seen, and for once he is going to look fabulous while one-upping Shane.

That morning starts off with a meeting, which should probably be an omen in and of itself. Nevertheless, Shane restrains himself to only shooting one spitball at Ryan while he’s talking (“In the Halloween spirit. Get it? Halloween? Spirits?”).

Everyone goes home a little early to get dressed like the preschoolers they are, and by the time Ryan shows back up, the party is in full swing. There’s a playlist of generic Halloween anthems, and he’s fully convinced Monster Mash is on there well over forty times. Someone brought cupcakes decorated like small witches. Ryan has a love-hate relationship with this holiday, as he loves the decorations but hates the entities they must invite.

Pacing himself, he’s only had a drink and a half interspersed with five different desserts by the time the party’s two hours in. He still hasn’t seen Shane, but he’s gotten seventeen (he’s been counting) compliments on his ghost costume so far, so that has to mean something.

He’s milling around next to his favorite brownies when suddenly, everyone gasps, and he turns around. Shane is standing there, and Ryan—

Oh, no.

Shane is wearing a meticulous vampire costume. His hair is dyed black and gelled into a swoosh, and he’s wearing contacts that make his eyes deep red and black. A dramatic cape that complements the color scheme perfectly covers most of the front, but the highlight is absolutely a beaded Victorian gown (which is period accurate, how).

Oh, _no_.

There are only a few things on this earth that can make Ryan’s heart pound 100 times per second.

The first is ghost hunting, getting caught up in the thrill of the adrenaline and not knowing what they might see next, if this might give him irrefutable evidence.

The second is doing a really heavy workout.

The third is standing across the room from him, mixed with the fact that his brain has just caught up with his heart and realized he has a schoolboy crush on his jerk coworker.

Eventually, working the crowd, Shane makes his way over to Ryan. He smiles widely, seemingly genuine, arguments almost lost in the tinny sound of the music.

Then, as suddenly as it came, Ryan’s competitive spirit knocks his love life out a window. No way is he letting this make him lose the contest.

“You look good! I love the lights you incorporated into your costume, were they originally for Christmas?”

Ryan nods. “Uh. Wh—Yeah. They were. You do, too. Look good, I mean. The costume. Did you make it? Cause if not, that’s cool, too, but.”

Or maybe not.

“I used to be, y’know, really into cosplay,” Shane says, because of course he was, and Ryan’s inability to tell the difference between rivalry and sexual tension has struck again.

“I’m gonna, uh. Go get some more brownies. They have boysenberries in them, you know.” He never wants Shane to stop smiling at him, even though he’s seen him do the same to practically everyone in the room.

He punches Ryan lightly in the shoulder. “Do it. Have some fun. We’re all gonna be dead tomorrow, though.”

Ryan laughs as if it’s the funniest joke anyone has ever made in the history of the world. “Yeah, true,” he says, before basically vaulting over a table in his haste to get to the dessert table.

* * *

 

It does go pretty well, honestly, until the clock hits midnight, and Ryan hits his umpteenth boysenberry brownie.

His head is kind of swimming; probably a combination of the amount of people, the costume becoming stuffy, and eating so much. He really wants to be at home right now, not having to deal with nausea or probable crushes. In a futile attempt to distract himself, he goes to ask Mark what, exactly, is in his heaven-brownies, and if the fact that weed is now legal here has anything to do with it.

“Oh, yeah. I have the recipe on my phone. You wouldn’t think that peanuts and boysenberries would go so well together, but—“

“Hold on. Peanuts?”

“Yeah! You’d never expect—“

He groans. “Damn. I’m allergic to peanuts.”

“Oh! Do we need to, like, do something, or?”

“It’s a sensitivity more than anything, but I should probably head on out. Make some tea, take some Benadryl.” Ryan does not mention the fact that he ate twelve of those bad boys before he stopped counting.

“Sorry! I should’ve thought about that!”

“Nah, it’s not your fault! I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He waves goodbye, right as he feels his stomach try to physically remove itself from the inside of his body. Oh boy.

Suddenly, like a buzzard that descends when it senses death in the air, Shane appears. “Hey? Are you okay?” The combination of Shane’s concern and feeling like shit is without a doubt going to make him cry if he tries to speak, so he shrugs and points towards the door.

“Oh, you’re leaving? Well, if you need anyth—“

Shane does not get to finish his sentence before an entire tray of boysenberry brownies are being spewed onto his impressive handmade vampire costume.

Which is how Ryan ends up in the backseat of Shane’s car, mortified and almost too carsick to protest.

Almost. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? I mean. You’re still. Covered in my vomit, I’ll stop talking now—“

Shane, who apparently is fazed by neither God nor man, laughs. “It’s cool. I have a lot of siblings, this is just par for the course.”

Ryan, despite realizing he has just been effectively sibling-zoned, persists. “I’m sorry about this whole situation—“

“Like I said, don’t worry about it. Do you like bluegrass?”

That stops him in his tracks for a moment. “What?”

“Y’know. Bluegrass music!” Shane then tries to do a twangy impression of bluegrass music while both waving his hands to mimic instruments and keeping the car on the road.

“What the— No. No, I hate bluegrass.”

“Then your night is about to get a whole lot worse,” says Shane, pushing a button. A cassette— and this man, honest to God, has a cassette of down-home country bluegrass as the only music in his expensive-looking sports car— starts to play.

He wakes up the next morning tucked into his bed, everything in its place. Shane is gone, and the only sign that it wasn’t a convoluted fever dream is the box of conversation hearts and glass of ice water on his bedside table. Ryan shouldn’t take them as a sign, but he still does.

* * *

Almost a month passes after that with little to no Incidents, as Ryan has started referring to them, with a capital I. Besides the usual bickering, nothing big happens. No pranks. No confessions of love (on either end). Nothing.

It’s driving Ryan absolutely batshit.

To top all of this pining and insanity off, he’s almost out of office supplies.

The first few times, he didn’t say anything, because of course he’s got it so bad that the thought of Shane using his pen made him swoon a little.

At this point, though, he’s out of almost everything, and Shane has to be the culprit. Pencils, pens, scissors, paper: all fair game for this Home Depot menace. There is, however, one thing that Ryan cannot live without.

His stapler.

Considering most of his work is done on a computer, this wouldn’t seem very important. Take this into account, though: it has giraffes on it. Giraffes. He spent seventeen dollars of his grown-ass-adult money for a stapler with cartoon giraffes on it, and he is going to make sure it stays with him at all times, no matter what the cost.

Besides, what does he have to lose?

Ryan storms over, death in his eyes and office supplies on his mind. “Give me back my stapler,” he says. He can’t take it anymore. The woman at Staples has started sending him Christmas cards. “I know you took it, douchecanoe.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Shane, continuing to type whatever he’s working on.

“The one with giraffes on it!” He’s loud enough that people have skipped from pretending-to-be-working-by-staring-at-their-laptops-instead-of-him to blatantly-listening.

“You own a stapler with giraffes on it?” Shane says calmly.

“I used to own a stapler with giraffes on it!”

“That’s a shame. I would have liked to see it.”

Then, Ryan makes the best mistake of his life. If he thought the Halloween party was the most mortifying moment of his entire existence, this tops it by at least 92 percent.

Or, Ryan’s Absolute Trash Brain cannot process the words ‘Fuck you!’ and ‘You wanna fight?’ separately, and he ends up yelling “You wanna fuck?” in the presence of a dozen coworkers.

There is a pause, in which the world stands still as a memorial to the stupidity that is Ryan Bergara. _Rest in peace,_ he can hear his family saying. _You had a good run until the ground swallowed you whole from embarrassment._ The entire room takes a moment to reboot.

Shane, who has absolutely no right to be any of the things he is, takes out a blue sticky note and one of Ryan’s pens. He’s probably writing an obituary.

“I—uh, I mean—“ Ryan starts, but all hope of damage control is lost. His words trail off into pure silence.

Shane looks directly into Ryan’s eyes. “I’ve been waiting a good seven months for you to ask, dickweed. I come at a price, though. Dinner and a movie, bare minimum. Here’s my address, I assume you already have my number, is seven okay for you? I’ve been wanting to see the new Marvel film.”

Ryan, who has lost all feeling in his extremities, gapes at Shane. “Seriously? Like, you’re, this is— For real?”

“I have never been more serious about anything in my entire life. And,” he can’t help cracking a smile, “as you so eloquently put it. I do wanna fuck.”

* * *

 

Ryan, who has never been early for anything in his life, gets in his car at 6:00 to pick Shane up, and spends the next 45 minutes worrying about his appearance and chewing half a pack of gum.

Shane’s house is nice on the outside, though he’s not sure how he affords it. There’s a garden in the corner, blue shutters, and buttercup yellow brick. It’s odd and endearing, just like its occupant.

Shane opens the door, and heaven help him, Ryan gasps out loud. Shane’s wearing what he’s worn every single day, but his hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a black bow tie with goldfish on it. All of the exhaustion from work leaves him almost instantly. Ryan’s car is old as the hills, and barely puttering along, but that doesn’t matter to either of them. Shane grins the usual annoying grin, and Ryan manages to collect his jaw from the floor.

“Hey!” Shane says brightly, opening the car door, like he hasn’t just made Ryan’s entire ~~day~~ ~~year~~ _life_.

“Hey,” he manages weakly in response. “So you weren’t super specific, I wasn’t sure what to wear, are we going out to eat somewhere fancy, or getting ice cream, is that too cheesy, or—“

“You look perfect, and I was thinking something small? I could cook if you want.”

Of course he can cook. Probably better than Bobby Flay himself. “Sounds great.”

“It should be good, even though I set fire to my kitchen microwaving a Poptart once. Don’t worry, though. I won’t burn your house down. Arson usually waits until the fifth date,” he says, winking melodramatically.

Ryan knows it’s to make him feel better (his real wink could probably make the Statue of Liberty swoon), but it works, along with the implication that there are going to be five more of _these_. Date nights where anything feels possible, where Shane will make dumb jokes and pineapple fried rice, where Ryan’s heart refuses to stop tensing while the rest of his body melts, where it’s just Ryan and Shane and the infinite night.

He laughs. “How did you set a microwave on fire with a Poptart?”

“Five minutes seems like an appropriate amount of time to microwave a slightly frozen pastry, but trust me. It is not.”

Ryan laughs again, probably loudly than is appropriate, and opens up the center console to dig out their tickets.

“Oh! That reminds me,” says Shane, in a way that Ryan has not yet learned means something cursed is about to happen. He reaches into the pocket of his down jacket (that Ryan immediately resolves to steal before the night is over) and pulls out a cassette.

“What is this?” says Shane, laughing a little even though the punchline has yet to arrive.

“If we’re going to be an item, you need to gain some respect for time-honored traditions.”

Bemused, Ryan takes the cassette and puts it into his car, which is old enough to still have a player.

The groan echoes down the highway as the first strains of a fiddle and a twangy cover of Don’t Stop Believin’ echoes through the car. Shane’s grin is positively evil. It’s the most adorable thing Ryan has ever seen.

* * *

The movie is probably good. Ryan doesn’t know, between the popcorn sharing and the fact that Shane smells like a Cinnabon kiosk all the time, how is that possible or legal, unfair. They make a lot of dumb comments under their breath, and try to get the other to laugh as hard as possible, until Shane lets out what can only be called a guffaw and four of the people in front of them glare.

When they get out of the movies, the dreamy feeling of the night combined with the dreamy feeling of leaving a theater makes the whole thing seem slightly unreal, like existence is tilted on its axis. The darkness of the night and the bright lights of the mall, twinkling stars mixed with posters advertising upcoming movies, contrast until Shane looks absolutely ethereal.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Ryan laughs.

“No!”

“Shane—“

“Absolutely not!”

“Duck mouths and horse mouths are the exact same thing, and you’re closing your eyes to the truth!”

“That’s horrible!”

“Says the man who made me listen to thirty solid minutes of bluegrass and puts ketchup on his ice cream.”

“Hold—“ Shane wheezes, “Hold on. How the fuck— How do you pronounce ketchup?”

“What? Like catch-up! That’s how you do it!”

“There’s an e there for a reason!”

“At least I don’t say it catsup.”

“At least people who say it like that have an alternate spelling and don’t pretend the letter e doesn’t exist.”

“There is no difference in the way you say it and the way I say it.”

“Ah, yes. Because as everyone knows, my name is Shan Madj.”

* * *

“So. That’s the story of how we fell madly in love.”

“That’s the story of why I still follow you into houses that will probably give me asbestos poisoning,” Shane amends.

“That, too. Now. I’m done. Bam. End of story. Will you go to sleep now?”

“Well, not entirely end of story. You didn’t mention how big my d—“

“Shane,” Ryan says, his tone the vocal equivalent of an eye roll.

“Alright, alright. I guess that’s a little explicit for Lily, if she’s listening.”

“Lauren.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s really not—“ Ryan stops, cut off by a creak somewhere in the distance. Their light suddenly seems too small, the house too large, like they’re adrift in a distant part of the universe with only each other and the bed. The air feels oppressive, even though it’s the middle of winter.

Shane wraps his arms around Ryan, and all of the tension melts. “If I go to sleep, who will protect you from all of the ghouls?”

He smiles into Shane’s chest. “Don’t you mean, who will piss off all of the demons and stand by talking about how the wind is strong while the devil himself body-slams me out a window?”

“Touché. Now get some rest. We have a long drive back tomorrow.”

“Asshole,” Ryan says, but he’s already half asleep. 

* * *

The next day, a green sticky note shows up on Ryan’s desk.

_‘URGENT: did you two Do It, cause if so, i called that big time, and also multiple people owe me twenty dollars. red tie tomorrow is yes, black is no.’_

He sighs and wonders if he still owns his red tie.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! this was fun to write. every time you comment on a fic, a hot dog gets its wings, and if it’s longer than two words i will probably happy cry, so please do that. as many have said, i can only Attempt to banter on their level, but i hope i came close.
> 
> also, i ate eleven pastries (half fudge half cookie. i regret nothing) even though i’m allergic to gluten and threw up about 4 a.m. at my own sleepover. this was Mostly Based On True Events. 
> 
> i also went to subway so often once that the woman sent our family a christmas card, and i was forced to listen to a bluegrass cover of don’t stop believin’ at a theme park. it was horrible. i exploded a microwave with a poptart and the school had to replace it entirely. the comment about horse and duck mouths is something i have actually said, and i pronounce ketchup catch-up. and these are just the ones i can think of. i wasn’t kidding when i said this fic was a mishmash of weird things i’ve experienced.
> 
> i did the math to figure out how many episodes of friends one could watch from 7 pm to 5 am. the answer is, with 10 hours and 20 minute episodes, thirty, but i rounded it to twenty-nine so he had time for bathroom and coffee breaks, though i’ve both made coffee and peed while watching netflix so that’s not really an obstacle here.
> 
> sadly, i can be found @doingthewritethings on instagram. i’m usually not writing rpf. u s u a l l y.


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